Warm Spot

A warm spot of carpet, littered with splinters of fragrant firewood illuminated by glowing embers shining through glass in the old stove. I can go there in my mind. Like an old path to a time when I never spared a thought for growing older. Like the path from the house to the barn winding through snow tinted yellow by a halide bulb holding the darkness to the trees surrounding our house. An old bulb humming like a frigate through the shivery night. Whether there were four boys playing in the snow below, or just one nervously dashing to face his fears in the dark barn so the animals got fed. I still remember how it felt to be safe and cozy after revelry in the snow turned into soggy, numb suffering all at once. Even though it seems like a lifetime ago, and everything has changed, I still remember that warm spot on the carpet by the stove.